Chase Me
by EnlistedRanks
Summary: Evening Chaser is a student at the College of Winterhold, experiencing the things an argonian immigrant does at his age; leaving home, higher education, young love. Nothing in life is permanent, but not even the Elder Scrolls themselves could have foreseen the path his life would take.
1. The Dream

**CHASE ME**

_"To master Alteration, first accept that reality is a falsehood. There is no such thing."_

- Reality and Other Falsehoods

**CHAPTER ONE**  
**The Dream**

_ The warrior stood alone at the crest of the weathered hill, cloaked in robes that had seen countless journeys. He surveyed the land, his identity obscured by the strange helm that he wore. It seemed a bowl turned down upon his head, woven of wicker and rice paper. With his right hand, he planted his weapon in the ground beside him, the tip of the spear pointing to the heavens as if to stake his claim before the Divines. He seemed almost to lean against it, as though he were ancient or exhausted. Indeed the warrior seemed a contradiction in both form and substance - as though his wretched, bent frame carried within it a hidden strength of limb or will. The very air around him seemed to share his deformity, distorted as though something in the mysterious figure's nature offended the very fabric of the world that surrounded him. His race was indiscernible; all that was clear was his purpose. Come what may, the hill was his and none would pass its slopes._

_ Countless challenges barked forth all at once, and the warrior gazed out to the horizon. The rising sun backed a tide of war - ten thousand armored shapes shining silver in the sun's rays, bellowing out as one a call for blood. All spokes and angles they were, every line perfectly smithed to shred whatever it touched - and yet their texture was one of freshly mined ore, coarse and unrefined. A single such unit could fight a war without weapons, yet each carried with it a long, gray blade which flared at the base and merged with the crossguard into lethal spikes. The gray army moved with slow purpose in unbroken rank, their march of cold unity a drumbeat below their battle cry. Raised spears scraped at the underbelly of the sky, some adorned by a hanging standard depicting a great crowned helm framed by wicked blades._

_ Even as their endless number reached the foot of the hill, the lone warrior did not retreat. He stood in their way as would a great oak tree, heeding not the elements and impervious to force. His only motion was a single step forward as he raised his weapon before him - a halberd, twofold a spear and great crescent axe. His stance betrayed no fear; only a wall of will striding openly to face the shimmering force before him._

_They were twenty paces distant._

_Ten._

_The front line's spears lowered, ready to stop short any threat to their wielders._

_Five paces._

_ With a collective heave, a phalanx of pronged poles pitched toward the protector, meeting nothing but open air. For in that heave, the warrior had hurled himself skyward, hurtling ten men's height into the air as though yanked by an invisible puppeteer. From the horde that watched his ascent, there was only silence. As he hung suspended for a moment at the apex of his flight, the halberd rose above his head, guided by a mighty, armored grip. Down it swept as gravity reclaimed him, the sheer force of his descent defying the size of his frame. With a deafening clash of steel and thundering of earth, with more force than he should have possessed were he a dozen times his own size, the warrior met the gray army with an impact that devastated their front line. Silver figures were tossed aside as if mere toys, raining down the hill like screaming motes of dust. The long-hafted polearm swept in wide whirling arcs to clear a circle within the advancing lines, its dance of death keeping the distant at bay and punishing the daring. Each blow landed sent one knight sprawling into a pack of his brothers, turning order to chaos._

_ Try as they might to surround him, the warrior kept them cowed, not with his might but his magic. Some were frozen in their tracks by a mere glance as though their armor had rusted in an instant. Others found themselves crushed flat by invisible burdens, and still others became lighter than air, only to come crashing down upon their brothers-in-arms like a glistening meteor shower. Try as they might, they could not take the hill - yet they marched on and on, undaunted by the loss of so many to one so mighty. It was as if they had no will to flee - only to fight. And fight they did, to the death. Each knight lost was replaced by another three. The wave at the horizon became a shimmering stream without end as far as the eye could see, its sword-straight flow broken only by the single rock in its path. On they pushed, only to be beaten back again and again by the warrior, no less glorious for his hopeless struggle._

_ On he fought with no end in sight, the earth shuddering with his every ferocious blow. Slowly the quaking grew as something else pierced the sky, looming over the horizon like a growing monolith. It was like the gray stone knights, yet more ornate - its joints, shoulders and helm sprouting coiled stalagmites that lanced higher and higher as it drew nearer and nearer. A low metallic thrum issued from the grille-like gaps in its helm as if it had been struck from within, echoing. Compelled by the sound, the monstrosity's smaller brothers cowered beneath its might and coursed him at the heels as it raised above its head a mighty blade of whittled gray ore, thick as a tree trunk and wrapped in a gauntleted grip. With each monumental step the mountainous knight-beast grew closer, the rumbling of its hulking frame shifting the bodies of its army from the warrior's hill. With each lumbering stride it grew taller until it finally stood at the foot of the guarded heath, eye to eye with its foe._

_No words were spoken. No fear betrayed. The warrior merely raised his halberd above his head, charged toward the mass of metal crashing down upon him and leaped to his death._

_For at the last, even the mightiest will fall._

-=0=-

Katarina stared at me in silence for longer than I thought she would, her eyes dark with confusion. Finally, stifling a chuckle, she replied. "That's... quite a dream, Eve."

My dorsal plumage ruffled at the nickname, as if my gritted teeth didn't make my chagrin obvious enough on their own. "Please don't call me that," I said, trying not to sound too bothered. "Nothing in the world irks me more than pet names." She smiled, running a pale hand through the royal blue feathers; her own little way of keeping me docile whenever she felt I was getting riled. "But 'Evening-Chaser' is such long-winded nonsense for a name," she jabbed, her voice playful and intimate. "You argonians are so pretentious."

"I could always start calling you Kat," I offered, grinning wryly and imitating her tone. "Now _that_ would be pretentious." Katarina's expression told me that she didn't share my appreciation for turnabout humor, so I sighed and returned her caress, letting her chestnut locks trail through the tiny canyons between my scales. "It's a tradition," I told her. "On our Naming Day, our parents choose a name for us when they feel we've found our lot in life. It's symbolic."

"Oh?" She said, shifting her body closer. "What did they have in mind for you when they chose yours?"

I shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest."

"You never asked?"

"Not supposed to."

"Why?"

"Because if they just tell me, then I'll never have a chance to find out on my own."

She had nothing smart to say on the subject. In fact, she stayed quiet for a while. So did I, mostly because her tongue was in my mouth. We never tended to do a lot of talking when we were alone together. I still don't understand why a smart young Breton girl like her would choose to while away her nights with a man whose hide looks like a mismatched turquoise mosaic, but there you have it. Perhaps she just had exotic tastes - or perhaps, being half-elven mongrels already, the Bretons have a lax attitude towards interracial relations. Regardless, I wouldn't have had it any other way; travelling to the College of Winterhold to learn the art of Alteration took me a long ways from hearth and home, and to this day I'm still not sure the trip was worth it - but whenever I was with her, the answer to that question was always a confident and unrestrained "yes."

That's why I saw fit to share my strange dream with her.

After we broke the kiss, she lay curled gently under my arm, head perched on my shoulder, legs all jumbled up with my tail. The sheets rose and fell to the rhythm of my breaths and hers, a calm wave breaking on the shores of my scales. It was almost hypnotic; the simple act of speaking felt like a shameful waste of the quiet dawn, but I had to ask. "So... the dream?"

She laughed in answer. I don't know what she thought was so funny. "What about it?" She asked, tilting her gaze up to meet mine. I leaned into her, meeting her nose with my snout. I felt my heart flutter and my thoughts drift to my bedside table and the gift that lay within, knowing that it would have to wait. It's easy to get distracted by her, to say the least.

"I wanted to know what you thought of it. What do you think it means?"

"I think," she said, craning her chin up in mock contemplation, "the army symbolizes society at large destroying things they don't understand, and the goliath knight with the giant sword represents your repressed homosexual desires."

This time I didn't share the joke. "Are you _ever_ serious?"

"Not in bed."

As I said. Distracting. Sometimes a refocusing is necessary, as tempting as the alternative is. "Dreams aren't always just dreams, Katarina. The sons of the Septim line had visions of their own futures in their sleep. Tribunal priests of Morrowind used to think recurring dreams were a sign of an ill mind."

Katarina turned over, stretching out her slender back and sitting against the headboard alongside me. "Why ask me, then? If you're worried, why not go to the Arch-Mage about it?"

"I trust you. Not to say that I don't trust the others, but... in a different way, I mean," I slid my arm across the small of her back, trying to be reassuring. "I feel like I can tell you these things."

"Oh," she said, "_this _again." Katarina shrugged off my touch, slipping from the bedsheets to gather the scattered layers of her mage's robes from the cold stone floor without even a blanket on her. Modest she was not. "Eve, I've told you before. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't be with you, but just sleeping together is not a relationship."

"It is if you do it enough times!" I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, turning to face her. "All I said was that I trusted you."

She turned her back to me, putting her arms through her robe's sleeves and almost tauntingly sliding its neckline up over her shoulders. "And I understand that - but I'm not your confidant, Eve. I'm just your comfort." Okay, not even _almost _tauntingly.

I stood up, blanket around my waist. "Why is it so hard for you to imagine we could -"

"We could what?" She turned to me, tying off her robe with an irritated yank. "Get married? Have a family? My mother would probably kill you before that happened."

I bent down to pick up my own clothing, intending to follow her if she left the dormitory. "My parents would like you." I didn't know that for sure, but I had to say something.

Katarina's hand shot up to her lips as if I'd cornered her expertly. "Oh, I didn't realize. Well, as long as it's alright with them." Her hand relaxed, revealing the sneer beneath. "Even if we could find a priest of Mara open-minded enough to marry us, it's not as if I could have your eggs."

I couldn't help but glance at my bedside table again. My answer came out meekly, as if from leagues away. "We could adopt."

She paid my efforts no mind, glaring back at me like I'd just insulted her figure. "We won't be in this college forever, Eve. I have a plan. You don't. It's as simple as that."

It was true, but I couldn't admit it. I stuttered, scrambling for anything that might placate her. "Alteration mages are in high demand by the Imperial Legion. I could enlist and -"

"Then you'd get killed. And even if you had the clout to weave your way into some cushy fort posting, we'd still never see each other." She paused for a moment - a moment I didn't give her.

"So I need to be protected, but you're entitled to put your life on the line just because you feel obligated to the family business?" I let an indignant snort issue from my nostrils; big mistake. With a sudden violence, Katarina turned to me and glared straight in my eye. She never did like my broaching the topic of her plans for the future - and certainly not in a negative light.

"I'm not _obligated_! The Vigil of Stendarr is in a bad way and my mother needs every soldier she can get! I made that choice long before I met you. It was never some big secret!" She marched back to the door, reaching for the knob. Something stopped her, however. Perhaps she wanted to get a few more licks in. "I know what I want, Eve. You don't even know what your own _name _means!"

"Well, at least I don't have a crackpot for a mother!"

I regretted the words the moment they escaped me - I should never have said them, but it seemed like the best way to shut her up in the heat of the moment. She didn't grace me with an answer; her look was one of rage and hurt. We had a standoff there, her hand on the doorknob and mine clutching my inverted robes to my chest like a flimsy shield. After a silence whose seconds lingered like winter, she spoke. Her voice was gentle again, yet colder than the north wind. "Our lives were always going to different places. You're the one who assumed this was going to last," then, as she threw the door open defiantly, she twisted the knife one final time.

"I never lied to you."

My eyes fell from hers. "Neither did I."

If she was at all caught by my words, she did not show it.

"It's only a dream, Eve. Nothing more."

The door slammed shut. My clothing fell to the floor and I joined it there moments later, slumped against the foot of the bed. She could be so fickle sometimes, and yet the room felt so empty without her. Maybe I was just fooling myself, thinking we could be more than a fling - but I couldn't help what I felt. Denial on my part would just make things worse, wouldn't it? How could we find a way to see eye to eye? I mean, for one thing my eyes were on the sides of my head.

Okay, that wasn't as funny as I'd hoped.

I sat there for a spell, kicking myself for not getting dressed and going after her, but I knew it wasn't likely that anything I had to say would improve her mood. It's the worst feeling in the world to have done something wrong and be unable to fix it, not knowing if the problem would resolve itself over time or just stay that way forever. It's frightening, like being alone in the forest at night, wondering what else is out there and whether or not it's hungry. Waiting, not knowing - that was the worst part.

At last, I reached for the drawer of my bedside table, pulling it open to reveal the gift I'd intended to give to Katarina that day - a small brass medallion on a gilded string with a tiny blue gem inlaid at its center. An Amulet of Mara, forged by the priests of the Goddess of Love. A gift reserved for marriage proposals. Needless to say, the 'proposal' part hadn't gone as planned - or even come anywhere close to it. Now the pendant was trapped in reservation. I felt for it.

The medallion was cool in my grip, like a little disc of tightly packed snow. I don't know why, but it felt calming - reassuring, like a mother's voice. Holding it made me feel at ease, as if my fight with Katarina were nothing more than a nightmare. That wasn't true, of course, but the small jewel's icy light shone anyways - a little star in the palm of my hand, made a that much brighter by the early morning sun streaming onto it through my bedside window. It made me want to believe everything would turn out for the best. An idealistic sentiment, but unrealistic. Why? Because the same sun in the same sky told me that classes were set to begin in less than one hour - and I was here sulking naked on the floor, waxing lyrical over a cheap piece of jewelry.

Right. Everything would be just _fine_.

-=0=-


	2. The Statue

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** If you've already read the original version of chapter one, you can skip this one. I felt I needed to edit the first chapter into two smaller ones in order to make it less clunky, so this is actually just the second half of the first one on its own. So technically this second chapter is a lie, although have I made a couple important edits. If you were waiting for an update with baited breath, then have no fear - chapter three is now up. Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 2**  
**The Statue**

They say that any item forged in the name of the Divines will carry their blessing; I've never been a true follower of Mara outside of the odd Septim in a collection plate, but I couldn't bring myself to put the amulet back in my drawer to collect dust and rust. I still couldn't say why, but I left my dormitory with the amulet laced around my neck, its little blue beacon hidden beneath my robes. It just made me feel _okay_. Not happy. Not great. But okay, as if I knew I could handle whatever came of the morning's... disagreement. Perhaps the Goddess of Love doesn't discriminate between her followers and her sometime-patrons, and extends her hand to theirs regardless.

It certainly felt as if I'd only survive the day through divine intervention.

As I exited the Hall of Attainment - the student's dormitory - I entered the College of Winterhold's central courtyard. The sleek snowfall was parted by my boots, and I stood within a massive ring of pillars overlooking the Sea of Ghosts from the peak of Winterhold's powdered white cliffs. Across from me, the Hall of Countenance sat, shut tight - the instructors took their ease there, so it was likely vacant considering classes were about to begin. Forming a triad with the students' and the instructors' dormitories, the Hall of Elements towered above, tall and cathedral-like; as much a place of worship to a mage as a wayshrine was to a knight. A place to learn and praise knowledge. Its facade was adorned with a blue-stained window in the likeness of a human eye with five points of starlight radiating from it - the symbol of our order and its endless endeavor to reach enlightenment through magical acumen.

Within the courtyard's centre there loomed a grand stone statue of Shalidor, the great mage who founded both our order and the city of Winterhold itself. His snowshod arms stretched out before him as if he were conjuring the very elements, his cloak billowing behind him in the wind. Yes, billowing. Alteration magic is a wonderful thing - being able to bend the rules of the physical world to your will is one of the most difficult things a mage can hope to achieve, but Tolfdir, our new Master Wizard, is a true artisan of his craft. He enchanted the stone of the sculpture to ripple in time with the breath of the wind, like dense grey silk. The College gets a lot of wind sitting at the edge of a mountain cliff, so it's quite relentlessly spectacular to watch. A true assertion of the beauty of our art in the face of the detractors that, quite literally, surrounded us.

I was quite alone in the courtyard that morning. Most students were already up at the crack of dawn, studying old tomes in the Arcaneum or practicing magic in the Hall of Elements - my destination. Magic practice was about to begin, and I was usually there early to train with the other students. But before I could go into the Hall, there was something important to do. At Shalidor's granite feet there sat a squat well of stone blocks; I stood at its edge, my hands perched on its threshold. Captured within it was a shallow shimmering pool that shone as if molten silver. Tiny meandering flecks of blue rose from the well, slowly trailing paths into the early morning sky. This well in particular was based upon the ruins built by the ancient Ayleid Elves of Cyrodiil - its function was to capture moonlight during clear nights and store it for use by mages. All Magicka on Mundus comes from our two Moons, Masser and Secunda - most people of magical talent have the ability to absorb that energy from the air while in a focused rest, filling their very being with the power of the heavens in preparation to unleash it once again in whatever form they can give to it; the well allows us to do in an instant what would require hours of meditative rest, which I was... _deprived_ of the night before.

I raised my hands to mirror Shalidor's conjuring stance, closing my eyes and willing my mind to travel inward, like a whirlpool of thought and knowledge drawing the world in with it. My breath slowed, silent; I felt the blue lights dance toward me like fireflies, swirl around me, ghost through my robes and merge with my being, each one tingling coolly like a softly melting snowflake. It is difficult to describe the feeling of filling one's own Magicka well to those not magically inclined; try to imagine the satisfaction of a finishing a delicious meal, only without the taste of food or the bloating afterward. A fulfillment of the mind, recognized in sensation.

Opening my eyes once more, I found my gaze had drifted up to the face of Shalidor; if ever there was a stereotypical wizard, he would be the very image. A dark hood, squinting eyes, wrinkles deep enough to grow a garden in. He looked stern, exacting, unsatisfied. I wondered what he would think of his city today, the once-fair Winterhold - devastated by tidal waves, half sunken to the deep, devoid of trade and influence, populated by closed-minded folk who mistrusted the College and its teachings. Seeing his still-searching eyes, I doubted that such an outcome would satisfy such a great man. If anything ever did, that is.

But satisfaction is not a thing of posterity. It's a full Magicka well humming warmly within. It's a golden amulet whose shimmer makes things seem less worrying. It's a night with the chestnut-haired Breton girl you care too much about, turned to a parting with the rising of the sun.

A girl I knew would be waiting in the Hall of Elements, anticipating her morning lesson and doing her utmost to keep me out of her mind. As soon as the thought entered my head I could focus on nothing else but what I would say to her once we reached our midday break - how I would try to reconcile with her and keep things the way they were for just a little longer. Before then, however, I was going to have to maintain the presence of mind necessary to channel the very astral energies through my body and alter the physical plane to fit my will. Oh, it would be an interesting day to say the least.

I trudged sheepishly through the snow-covered courtyard and passed the windswept robes of Shalidor, pausing before the grand double-doors at the base of the Hall of Elements. As I placed my hands on the doors and pushed, the sound of warping air and the stench of brimstone wafted from within, warding the cold of the courtyard altogether too quickly.

All of a sudden, the doors pushed back.

Swinging wide as if kicked by a giant, the thick wooden doors gave way to the most destructive element of all - fire. It streamed forth like the breath of a dragon, singing my robes as it snaked overhead and parted around the fluttering stone cloak of Shalidor - a deadly orange blossom, blinding and beautiful. My scales felt like they were blistering on the spot from being so close - they would have been charred black had the impact of the doors not sent me tumbling back into the snowbank at Shalidor's feet. I rolled over and over, screaming, slathering the fresh white carpet over my hands, my robes, my face - anywhere that felt too hot. I didn't come to a rest until I was soaked through, shivering from the cold and the shock. By that time, the sound of snow being crushed underfoot had surrounded me, backed by worried murmurs and the occasional gasp.

My hands roamed to my face and I found a large welt where the doors had hit me; I couldn't tell if the wet feeling was blood or melted snow. I dared to open my eyes, and the first thing I saw was a pair of red eyes set in razor-sharp charcoal features, inches from my face. Before the hovering presence could speak, he was yanked from me by one pointed ear and pulled to his feet by a terse golden hand, finding himself face-to-face with a tall and proud Altmer in an ornate set of black robes. Her molten-amber gaze paralyzed his protest, scrutinized him; found him wanting. She knew she had found her suspect, and she was not pleased.

"Treoy Turil," the fair-skinned mage intoned as if she were merely conducting another lesson. "I might have known."

The young Dunmer started, clawing at the hand gripping his ear. "Faralda, I-" He was cut off with a grimace when she merely tightened her hold.

"You will address me as Master," she stated in her lecturing tone, doing no more in her mind than reasserting her authority over a disobedient child. Treoy did not reply at first, but another good twist of his lobe coaxed out his acquiescence.

"Yes, Master!"

"Good," Faralda said, letting her irritation show. "Now, would you care to explain to me why the entranceway to the Hall of Elements has been reduced to so much kindling?"

Treoy spoke quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. "I was only trying to - it was an accident! I didn't know anyone was in the way! I wasn't even aiming for the door!"

Faralda pulled him closer, maintaining her hold over him. "Destruction Magic is a very dangerous practice, Treoy. The elements of nature are not our plaything - in fact, the opposite is true. It would take a lifetime - or two - of intensive training to properly control and direct the incantation you attempted here. I understand your impatience and hunger for mastery, but I cannot allow unchecked ambition to bring harm to my students, especially in a time when careless use of magic can bring additional judgments upon us. As it is, you are fortunate no one was seriously hurt; otherwise I would have had grounds to punish you to the fullest extent of my authority as the College's Magister of Destruction."

Treoy remained silent for a moment, contemplating the words of his Master. Then he cracked a subtle grin and rasped "Rehearsed that spiel, have you?"

At first it seemed that Faralda would lose her temper and rip Treoy's ear clean off the side of his head - but to the surprise of all, she merely smiled and released him with only a pat on the cheek. "Every morning, just for you," she said. "Report to the Arcaneum after classes today. You have a lot of research to do for that paper."

Treoy's brow sunk in confusion. "What paper?"

Faralda slowly, almost lazily lifted her hand in the general direction of the doors, which lay peeled from their upper hinges like the skin of a dried-out fruit, still flickering with the dying light of windswept flames. She flexed her fingers as if commanding a person to halt - and with that, the flames died out. No wind or frost extinguished them - they just shriveled back like salted snow, leaving behind not so much as an ember. She glanced back to her student.

"The paper I am assigning to you as of now. No less than ten quill-written pages - in your _own_ words this time - summarizing and suggesting solutions for the issues of safety when practicing spells classified within the School of Destruction, with _particular emphasis_ on the risks posed by advanced elemental channeling."

Treoy opened his mouth to protest, but his Master spoke first. "See to your friend," she said, gesturing to me as she headed off towards the Hall of Countenance.

"One week," she added, gripping the doorknob like a pair of tongs. "Everyone - return to your lessons!" The door slammed behind her, and a small coat of snow came loose from the ridge of the doorframe, piling on the ground.

With the exception of Treoy and myself, the crowd of students slowly filed back into the Hall of Elements. The Dunmer paused, igniting a much smaller flame in the palm of his right hand before he reached down to me with his left. I managed to sit up, still freezing from the cold, and took his hand. Pulling me to my feet, he offered the flame aloft before me. I held my shaking hands over it, finally bringing my spastic shivering to an end. Argonians like myself tend to regulate our body heat through the temperature of our environment, and we far prefer the heat to the cold; one of the many niggling inconveniences that marred my travels and stay in Winterhold. Luckily for me, I had chosen to travel here with a friend who doubled as a sentient bonfire.

"I'm sorry, 'Chaser," he said, arms folded apologetically in front of him. "I didn't mean for that."

I waved him off. "No trouble," I said facetiously, rubbing at the cracked, swollen patch on my face. "It made my day to see Faralda chew you out."

"She's a harsh Master, true, but she's got to do the whole disciplinarian routine," he replied, shrugging. "If she wants to put up with _me_, that is."

I grumbled. "One day she's going to turn you into a living lightning rod, and then you won't find her 'disciplinarian routine' so funny."

Laughing aloud, he put his arm around me, leading me on towards the Hall of Elements despite my insisting that I could walk on my own. He glanced at my face along the way and I noticed him wince. I rolled my eyes. "The door gave me a lump, I know."

Treoy bit his lip, thinking his response over. "It's not that," he said as we reached the doorway's threshold.

I blinked, confused. "What is it? A burn?"

Treoy released me, gaze shifting conspicuously away. "...Not exactly. I'll talk to you later."

Without a word more, he slipped into the Hall of Elements and disappeared into the robed crowd. Sometimes I can't tell if Treoy's being sincere or sarcastic. At first I thought that the burn he mentioned was merely a jest - I didn't feel any pain or discomfort, and if I'd sustained a severe enough burn to be completely desensitized, someone would have said something about the lack of flesh on my bones. Or screamed. Whichever. I checked myself over anyways; my hands and face had not a scale out of place, and for a moment I thought I'd suffered nothing more than minor robe damage - a badge of honor among mages at any rate, given the nature of our work. However, as my hands reached the top of my head, I found the truth was far more distressing than burned flesh;

My plumes had been singed.

My people are very proud of our plumes, and those of us fortunate enough to grow them are typically regarded as desirable. The indignity was almost too much to bear at first, but I supposed it could have been worse - since I hadn't acquired any bald spots, I elected to count my blessings and get on with my increasingly disastrous morning. Almost unconsciously, I felt my hand come to rest over the shape of Mara's medallion, clinging comfortingly beneath my now-somewhat-tattered robes. Thinking of it still brought that feeling of contentment to me; the notion that no matter what else happened today, all of this was temporary. Strange sentiments after having a fight with my woman, then nearly being incinerated by an old friend - and with an inevitably torturous day ahead of me.

"Mara, give me patience."

Centering myself, I stepped through the shattered doorway and into the Hall of Elements.

-=0=-


	3. The Bird

**CHAPTER THREE**  
**The Bird**

Our morning practice was meant to be Destruction magic, but Faralda probably decided it was best to put that off until the doors were repaired. Many of the students (myself included) were shaken by Treoy's display, so there was not much protest when Collette Marence, our Restoration teacher, stormed up to the lectern a full four hours before her scheduled lesson, her ever-harried march leaving behind a veritable bread-crumb trail of torn parchment. A tall and slender woman with skin a little too dark to be a pure Breton, her perpetual grimace and bleary eyes clearly expressed just how little she wished to be awake and teaching this early in the morning. As she surveyed the robed ranks of the student body, she issued a heavy sigh and dropped a large blanket-covered basket to the ground beside her, shuffled a stack of wrinkled papers atop the lectern and began to read with all the enthusiasm and vigor of a hibernating bear, her voice competing with its own weary echo to be heard throughout the Hall of Elements.

"I would just like to remind everyone, once again, that Restoration is indeed a valid school of magic. It is absolutely worthy of research, despite many of the notes I've had left in my bed. And my desk. And on occasion, my meals. Anyone suggesting that Restoration is better left to the priests of the Temples, I think, is forgetting a few things..."

I glanced over to Treoy, whose countenance held nothing but disgusted boredom. His eyes darted back long enough to show me I had his attention - not that my droning competition was all that compelling.

"Unbelieveable," he mumbled. "She's reciting yesterday's lecture."

"Thanks to you, she didn't have any time to prepare," I hissed pointedly in return, keeping my own face towards the lectern to avoid arousing Collette's suspicion.

I'd hoped to end the exchange there, but Treoy was never one to take a hint. He snorted, his voice rising. "She's a master Restorer, Eve. She could have improvised."

I winced at the nickname. Or my forehead. Or Treoy's inability to percieve subtext. Take your pick. "Please don't call me that."

Treoy's eyebrow perked up. "Why?"

"...I don't want to talk about it." I turned my gaze from his, refocusing on Collette's tired despotic routine. Somehow, its content had progressed by a margin of zero during our conversation. The odds of my making it through this lesson without dying of boredom sank like a stone in the water.

"Firstly, the ability to repel the undead cannot be ignored. Skyrim is well known to be full of Draugr - ancient Nord warriors who cannot find peace. I submit that everyone in this College has, at one time or another, relied on one of the many Restoration spells that can keep them at bay..."

Collette's ability to pontificate pointlessly on common knowledge has always staggered me. It must have taken years of dedicated practice. Just as I was thinking Treoy would have probably preferred a lesson beneath Faralda's evil eye over this, he proved me right, shuffling nearer and nudging my arm with his bony elbow. The corners of my lips contracted irritatedly as I rumbled through my teeth. "Shut up. You'll get us in trouble."

He didn't listen. If anything, he was louder than before. "Look, all I'm saying is, if she wants to be taken seriously she could start by being professional instead of wasting our time telling us what a bloody martyr she is to the research of Restoration."

"Well, what is she supposed to do?" I asked, incensed by the endless complaining. "Capture a live Draugr for us to cleanse? Have us all stab ourselves in the legs and close each other's wounds? Wards aside, we can't exactly practice healing spells without anything to practice them _on_ -"

"Turil! Chaser!"

Collette's voice rang out, suddenly as crisp and clear as a whip cracking against the gray tiled floor. "If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is being ignored, especially by the two of you," she snarled. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off with a raised hand and a _tutting_ noise. As far as she is concerned, where either Treoy or I are at fault, we both must be. There is no middle ground.

She began to descend from the lectern, scooping up the covered basket. It shook a little in her arms; I couldn't tell if that was because it was too heavy for her, or if something was moving inside. "I know that neither of you have any respect for the work I do here, but that does not give you leave to interrupt me in the middle of my lecture." She moved towards us, tan-robed figures parting before her like a cowardly tide. As she approached, I shot a look at Treoy that said 'shut up and let me do the talking.' The day had barely begun and I'd already been concussed and burned on his account; I was not eager to take the blame because he couldn't keep his impatience to himself.

"Master Marence," I began appealingly. She likes her title. "I meant no offense. My friend was growing restless, and I was merely explaining to him that we are lucky to have you here so early after this morning's upset, and on such short notice. Please forgive me."

Collette's eyes narrowed, but her perpetually pursed lips didn't frown. She didn't seem to know what to make of my sudden humility. She was indubitably considering writing the both of us up; not for the first time, either. I kept as straight a face as I could manage, awaiting her decision and hoping that my appeal to her vanity would be enough to avoid more public embarassment.

At last, she spoke. "Chaser, I am not pleased. But I am tired and I can appreciate a well-worded apology when I hear one." Her sleep-deprived grimace gave way to a somewhat sly and bitter smile as she turned to address the other students around her. "In the interest of the lesson at hand, would mister Evening-Chaser care to repeat the words he was sharing with his friend?"

Just like that, all eyes were on me. I froze up just as if I had been standing outside all night; there is a definite reason I am never going to become a teacher at this college, and that reason is public speaking. I've never liked being put on the spot; everything just goes blank and I can't for the life of me articulate the simplest things. Swallowing my fear in an attempt to lubricate my rapidly drying throat, I began to weakly relate a diluted version of my original thoughts.

"I was just saying that... that it's hard to get... things to practice healing spells on."

Collette turned back to me, her smile leaving her face yet remaining in her eyes. "Yes, mister Chaser," she said, as if praising a child for speaking his first words. "Though I should thank you for volunteering yourself so generously." Before my confused gape could give form to the question in my mind, Collette's free hand extended toward the red seam the doors had opened between my scales; she slowly and firmly traced a single slender finger down the gap and my ridges shifted back together, knitting themselves into place at her mere touch. It wasn't even painful - all I felt was a distant itch, like a mote of dust had landed on my forehead. My cut had been healed, none the worse for wear. Satisfied with her work, Collette removed her finger from my brow and wiped a small scarlet streak on my robes with a barely-supressed grin.

"Though I applaud anyone who sacrifices for their art, I would never ask my students to harm themselves in the interest of research. That would run counter to everything the School of Restoration represents. That is why I prepared these yesterday." She gave the still-quaking basket under her arm a gentle pat before holding it out to me at arms length. "Would you be a dear?" She said with a knowing smile. It was not a request.

I could hear some kind of muffled wheedling struggling out from under the white blanket. It sounded painful, desperate. Lacking any recourse, I reached out gingerly and tugged the shroud off the basket, peering inside. All I could think of after that was covering it up again. Collette turned to the rest of the class once again, making sure that each student got a good look at the contents of the container before she spoke.

"Everybody take a bird."

There were indeed birds in the basket - crows, in fact, stacked neatly like fresh-caught fowl in a butcher's shop. The smell of blood was anything but faint. The birds had been mostly quiet when the blanket kept their enclosure dark, but the return of their vision brought with it a cacophony of cries that compounded as it echoed off the gray stone walls. They were drawn out, pathetic sounds; I briefly wondered why the birds didn't fly away when the sheet's confinement had been lifted from them. To my horror, the question was answered when the basket swivelled back to me once again. A closer look revealed the reason for their shrill panic; each crow had had one wing neatly snapped - by hand, it appeared, leaving them to writhe and wriggle against one another like worms trapped in a jar of dirt. Collette looked me in the eyes again, eyebrows perched high on her face as though she'd just made some irrefutable point that I had stupidly missed.

"I was planning to hand these out this afternoon," she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. "But, as you were telling your friend mister Turil, I've had to adjust my plans." I winced at the word _friend. _Of course we were, but merely standing next to Treoy could be a trial in itself sometimes - an immutable truth he was clearly eager to demonstrate, swaggering up to Collette with his arms crossed smartly as if he were standing at her lectern.

"Been eavesdropping on us, have you?" He asked with an exaggerated scowl.

Collette didn't miss a beat. "From the moment you two opened your mouths."

"That's impressive," said Treoy. "You must have ears like a fox if you could pick us out over the sound of your own voice."

The only answer he recieved was a spasming lump of black feathers shrieking into his chest. He barely caught the poor thing before it tumbled down his robes to the tiles beneath them. I shuddered, trying not to picture what could have been. Collette, apparently not so disturbed at the thought of animal cruelty, shoved a second twitching bird toward me. Sickened though I was I took it without question, not eager to further incur the wrath of a woman who thought nothing of snapping the wings of two dozen helpless little creatures. I tried to be gentle and soothing with the crow, but of course it was in terrible pain. Its wing hung limply from its side like a dead petal drooping from a dried flower. I continued to fight down my bile as Collette drawled faintly away, moving back across to her lectern.

"Broken bones are a very common injury because they may be acquired through a variety of mundane means, combat aside. If you've all been keeping up with your anatomical studies, healing a bird's wing should be fairly straightforward provided you adjust your proportions correctly. Everyone give it a go."

Gently cradling the shivering bird, I panned my vision around the Hall of Elements, picking out the confused and nauseated faces of my fellow students and friends. Treoy cursed aloud; the crow's beak lanced into the flesh of his palm as he tried to subdue the bird in a too-rough grip. A plump Bosmer spoke soothingly to his bird in low whistling tones, mimicking birdsong and lulling the struggling thing to sleep as he began to summon his Magicka into a healing spell. One tall Altmer had already succeeded, as his specimen's impressive wingspan testified. Yet none of these were the face I was looking for.

I found her in the front row as she always was, standing at the foot of the lectern. Her dark eyes were fixed upon the crow in her palms, its fear evident in its pathetic fidgeting and exhausted squeaks. She ran her hand gently down from the crown of its head to the feathers of its tail, cautiously avoiding the base of its wounded wing. Slowly it seemed to relax into her touch, taking comfort in her empathy.

I wished I were that bird.

I briefly entertained breaking my own arm for sympathy, but settled for imitating Katarina's calming gesture on my own specimen. I think it did more for me than the bird; he probably didn't like the texture of my scales. Still, I kept watching - her gentle strokes carried her hand slightly closer to the injury each time, her splayed palm slowly taking on a golden shimmer that washed through the feathers like molten ore. The bird started and cawed at the contact, but the spell had been performed by the time it reacted. Instinctively it stretched out its wings and took off from Katarina's hand, speeding away through the open doorway as if it had just caught fire. Others followed and a flock of flapping wings began to form outside, numbering at least a dozen and leaving a fluttering trail of black feathers to fall like the meandering snow from the sky.

My eyes met with the little black beads in my own crow's head. It had finally stopped thrashing about. Whether this meant it had entrusted itself to me or merely resigned itself to its fate was in my hands. Of the two of us, Katarina was always the best at Restoration magic. I've always had trouble healing anything other than a fresh wound - and these birds had been suffering with clean breaks for an entire night, if not longer. Still, there was nothing for it; If I took any longer, Collette might just decide that I couldn't do it and take the bird away. What would happen then, I did not want to know.

I took a deep breath and flexed my hand into a channeling sign, my two middle fingers curving inward to meet my palm as I breathed deeply, summoning from within some of the Magicka I had pulled from the well. Not too much - just enough to make my hand jitter against the bird's feathers. I shut my eyes, picturing the internal structure of the twisted wing, willing the muscle to uncoil, the snapped bone to mend and the tendons to fuse with it. Long and hard I focused, gently coaxing each strand of sinew into its place like a sculptor at his clay, guiding my Magicka by touch rather than sight. I poked and prodded and adjusted until I knew the job had been done - _had _to have been done, and perfectly. Eyes still closed, I twisted shut the tap on my Magicka well and cut the flow. I felt. I ruminated. I hoped.

"Hmm. Disappointing."

Opening my eyes to the sound of Collette's condescending contralto, I looked down at the plump black bird perched in my hand and cried out in shock. I knew my error as soon as I saw it; I'd maintained the spell for too long, expended too much magicka. In my self-indulgence, I'd generated far too much excess tissue. The crow's once-snapped wing was now swollen and tumorous, folded awkwardly up against its side like the crumpled pieces of parchment littering the lectern. Unbroken though it was, the wing looked stiff and unyielding - the bird choked out a caw as it tried to stretch out, succeeding only in looking like an abused, lopsided marionette. It would have been sickening if it weren't so sad to look at.

I had failed. The bird was crippled.

It would live, but never fly.

Collette held out an expectant hand; regretfully, I returned the bird to her. She left without a word, unceremoniously dropping the maimed bird into her hateful basket along with four others, each similarly malformed. I could not see if they were alive or dead. Collecting her papers from the lectern, Collette stormed out through the shattered doorway. Looking around, I found that the students of the Hall had turned to lesiurely discussions as they waited for the next lesson to begin; only Treoy remained by my side, clasping a hand upon my shoulder.

"Don't be upset. I didn't fix mine either."

I sighed. "That makes me feel better, Treoy. Thank you so _very_ much."

-=0=-


	4. The Daedra

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
**The Daedra**

The Hall of Elements had always been aptly named. Magicka was in the air, floating back and forth between groups of friends in every form imaginable, physical and otherwise. Not to be deterred by Faralda's warning or the injury I suffered on his behalf, Treoy had elected to gather a group of other students for an impromptu Destruction practice, thankfully confining himself to spells of a more manageable magnitude. From across the assembly I watched him hold the flame in his bare hands, stretching the rampant element into a consistent shape - a circle of fire through which fist-sized orb-shards of ice arched through to be shattered by bolts of cobalt lightning. A dangerous practice, and one Treoy would never attempt were any of his instructors present. On the other hand, he'd always reasoned that what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Sometimes I wished he'd consider his own safety a little more carefully, but I knew he was a showman at heart no matter how literal a pain he was to me or anyone else. Whatever he did, he did only to impress.

I had spied Treoy's practice partners during our last lesson. The frost fragments flew from the hands of the same squat Bosmer elf I'd seen talking to his bird, his too-long robes almost grazing the floor. His new feathered companion clung to him, sitting perched on his shoulder. It was rather bizarrely calm considering its master was scooping moisture from the air and forming it into jagged chunks of frozen water for hurling through a ring of fire. Such was the power of the elvish Beast Tongue; to form an instant and implicit bond between the speaker and the animal. Personally, I theorized that the Bosmer's ability to charm creatures was merely a form of inborn Illusion magic, but I knew of no way to prove it at the time.

Standing opposite the Bosmer and his bird was the towering Altmer, so thin that his dangling robes made him look like a farmer's scarecrow. Lazy flicks of his fingertips chained lightning toward the shards of ice, not shattering them so much as disintigrating them from the air. Not even a drop of steaming water could be found after he cast his spells, and he seemed incapable of missing his mark; regardless of the crescent angles each shard travelled, not one escaped his sight - much to the frustration of the Bosmer, whose scowling face looked ready to shrivel up on itself.

Treoy's little routine had gathered a few spectators besides myself; some students had strayed from their studies to watch as the ring rose higher from Treoy's grip, turning end over end in the air in time with the motions of his hands. The Bosmer began to lob his frost spells up and over the ring, letting them fall down through it as it rotated. His timing was impeccable to get them through, but the Altmer was not about to be outdone. His spindly golden fingers splayed wide and lightning leaped from one to the other, swirling into a zigzagging blue vortex. He nudged his palms forward as if to gently suggest that the spell should move; the result was a spectacular spiralling coil of trailing lightning that curved up through Treoy's flame causing it to fizzle outward in a sputtering orange wave, leaving only tiny red flecks to rain down like autumn leaves.

Suffice it to say he'd caught everyone's attention at that point. Even Treoy looked awed. Indeed, there was a respectful silence from all observers, myself included. The Altmer permitted himself a brief smirking glance at his clearly irked Bosmer counterpart, but made no action aside that betrayed even a hint of conceit. Even that little tell was quickly hidden when he heard a long, slow clapping from the hall's entrance that sounded anything but impressed. The elves and I turned to see a stocky, pale Breton whose crown was adorned with a truly remarkable bald spot, his ears sheltered beneath the only remaining hair on his head. As this picture of middle-aged ambivalence strode inside, he reached up with a rough hand to brush the fresh-fallen snow from his gray robes; it was clear he'd been watching from the shattered doorway for some time, and yet he made no notice of the cold weather. With a wrinkle of the nose and a lopsided frown, he stepped into the centre of the Hall to face the young Altmer, somehow dwarfing the taller elf with his mere presence.

"Quite spectacular, young master Balwin," he said, his sincerity less than palpable.

Balwin bowed his head politely. I would have never believed it had I not seen it myself, but there was apparently such a thing as a humble High Elf. "Thank you, Master Gestor," he replied in the way eager young apprentices do when they appreciate the compliments they've recieved and hope to be given another on the merit of their humility.

Master Gestor folded his arms tersely, his expression static. "Are the three of you rehearsing for a festival? The Burning of King Olaf over in Solitude, perhaps?"

Balwin's brow dipped. "Sir?"

"The fireworks," Gestor said, gesticulating imprecisely up at the ceiling. "What were they for?"

"For practice, sir," Balwin replied matter-of-factly.

"Don't you '_sir_' me," the scowling master snapped, his voice deepening. Then, like a coin had been flipped to show its opposite side, a sudden civility took him. "Call me Phinis," he finished, a false comfort on his breath.

Balwin, at a loss, complied. "Yes, s- ah, Phinis."

"Balwin," the Breton began, throwing a friendly arm around his wincing student's shoulders. "You know Destruction practice was cancelled for today, and yet here I find you in cahoots with the very hooligan who upset everyone else's schedule." Then, shooting a predator's glance to Treoy and the Bosmer, he intoned "_Whom I will speak with later._" I could almost feel the elves scowling back at him from where I was standing.

Phinis turned back to Balwin, looking at him the way a bear might at a small, irritating dog. "I believe that there is room only for the exceptional in the practice of Magery. Now, I don't doubt your skill, Balwin; it's Treoy there who can't keep a lid on his own fire." He paused, chuckling briefly. "But seeing you cavorting with layabouts like him - after all the work we've done together? That's hurtful."

I could see Balwin fight the urge to push Phinis' arm as he struggled for an excuse. "I meant no offense, sir -"

With that, the coin flipped back.

"_What did I just say?_"

Balwin stared for a moment, a little blank. So did everyone, for that matter. Of all our teachers, Phinis Gestor was perhaps the most... _off, _and it showed. Vividly. Not that he really cared, considering no one had the gall to interrupt him anyway.

"They're my friends," Balwin put forth weakly, as if the simple innocence of his motives would shield him from Phinis' rage. It did seem to soften Phinis' next response, if only from anger to a mere sneering condescension.

"I'm not your father, Balwin," he said, "I can't make you do what I tell you. If you want to waste your time with him, that's your decision. But when you get your face melted by some reckless gray-skin who thinks he ought to be Arch-Mage, don't say I didn't warn you -"

"Oh, get over yourself!"

Phinis' eyes looked fit to burst from their sockets when he heard that. The sheer audacity - that smeone would _dare _to insult him during _his _lesson? Unthinkable. He released Balwin and scanned the crowd for the voice that mocked him, outrage seeping back into his features. Most were unwilling to meet his eyes, instead turning their own to accuse the one who spoke out of turn.

"Oh, guarshit," I muttered, hand instinctively jolting to my calming amulet.

Adjusting her book satchel's shoulder strap, Katarina stepped out of the crowd to face Phinis. She pulled her hood back, her stern features putting Phinis' scowl to shame. He seemed more bemused than anything else at the sight of her, a visible snort issuing from his generously pronounced nose. "Ah, the exchange student," he sneered. "Can't you see I am having a very important discussion with my protege?"

"Oh, we all saw. You made damn sure of it, parading Balwin around like that," Katarina said, "Where do you get off humiliating him in front of his friends, using him to run the rest of us down? Who do you think you are?"

The only response from Phinis was his echoing footsteps as he gradually strolled his way over to Katarina. Understandably, Balwin took the opportunity to slip away and hide in the crowd near his Bosmer friend. No one knew what to expect from Phinis when he got like this, so naturally the crowd took a few steps back. I stayed in place, feeling like I should do... something. Katarina's eyes shifted to me briefly; feeling my throat clamp shut like a bear trap, I subtly cocked my head to the side, trying to get her to back off. She mouthed the word "no," then turned to meet Phinis' stare in the centre of the Hall. I stayed where I was; if she wouldn't budge, then neither would I.

"Miss... Katherine, is it?" Gestor said, strangely subdued. "I apologize if I'm incorrect. You haven't given me much reason to follow your progress too closely."

Katarina didn't even seem offended. "That's alright. You didn't strike me as the sort who bothers to get a woman's name."

There was some scattered tittering from the surrounding students. Phinis ignored them, seeming almost amused himself. "Very glib," he said, smiling much in the way one might consider a skull to be smiling. "I feel compelled to tell you, Miss Katherine, that you are infringing upon my valuable lesson time."

"Wasn't stopping you a minute ago," she quipped, hands perched defiantly on her hips. The snickering continued behind Phinis' back. It cut itself off abruptly when confronted by a mere glance from the Master Conjurer. I couldn't blame them; that hair was truly terrifying.

"How I choose to conduct my lessons is entirely my own affair," he said, turning back to the challenger beofre him. "If you dislike my methods, the door is quite open." He pointed smugly at the still-collapsed entranceway as if Katarina had somehow managed to miss the gaping thing.

"Why should I have to leave?" Katarina snapped, taking a step forward. "I'm here to learn and you're too busy ranting about your master race of mages to do your job. Seems to me you're the one with the attitude problem."

"Are you questioning my authority, girl?" Phinis spat, amusement evaporating from his face.

"Me and everyone else in the College!" Katarina said, extending her arms to the crowd as if she were playing to a jury. "Or is it standard procedure for so-called 'Masters' to use racial slurs regarding students they don't like? I haven't heard it from any of the others, but surely there's some obvious detail I've missed here. Enlighten me, won't you, Master?"

Phinis' mask of amusement abandoned him entirely, his face going beet red despite the drafty chill in the room. "You wouldn't understand!" He barked, his argument losing its focus. "I've seen unqualified hacks like Savos Aren take the title of Arch Mage! The damn grayskins have been running this place ever since the Red Year drove them all up here!"

The angrier Phinis got, the more courageously flippant Katarina became. Brazen, she turned from Phinis to appeal to her jurors in earnest as she continued her excoriation. "I was right! You're still angry that Savos was chosen instead of you. And for him to be replaced so suddenly by someone so young, someone otherthan _you_... it must sting to be passed over twice." Katarina let a satisfied smirk cross her lips as she returned to Phinis, venomously adding one word.

"_Sir._"

There was a long silence from the Master Conjurer. His outrage was not in question, but the manner of its expression was. His bearing and his voice relaxed, but his face remained as hard and dictating as ever. Slowly he spoke, choosing each word as if he were assessing its quality. "Miss Katherine. You remind me of a student I once had. Ornstien was his name - a truly talented summoner. For a Nord, anyways. Like you, he had a habit of speaking out of turn."

Phinis flexed his hand into a summoning sign at his side. Katarina mirrored him, white energy pooling in her palm. Behind my back, I did the same. If this was going to get out of hand, I'd be there for her no matter how much Phinis unnerved me and whether or not she appreciated it.

"Ornstien also had a habit of biting off more than he could chew, so to speak." Phinis began tracing his hand through the air as if drawing some symbol that only he could see. "Now, I took great pains to impress upon him that not all daedra are the same - that summoning a mere Scamp does not necessarily mean one can impose one's will upon... a Xivilai, for instance."

As his final words left his lips, he concluded his odd gesture. The lines he'd mimed took on a glowing, floating form in front of him - a curved, asymmetrical arch symbol with a small eye at its centre. _Oht _in the Daedric tongue.

The sign of Oblivion.

The sigil rippled like a vertical pool and a hunched, shadowy form loomed from within it. As if a reflection reaching through a looking glass, the figure emerged, standing to its full height. It must have been seven feet tall at least, male in form with the body of a warrior, eyes the color of blood and skin like a Dunmer's, regal curved horns sprouting from its brow and a mane of crowfeather black reaching down to its shoulders. It looked pleased as it scanned the room, showing a sadistic fanged grin as it met the eyes of each student in turn, surely imagining unique and grisly fates for each and every one of us. Finally, his bloody glare alighted upon Katarina.

Phinis continued to speak as if he'd done nothing more remarkable than brew up a batch of tea. "Now, Xivilai are the very highest order of Mehrunes Dagon's servants, beholden only to the Daedric Lord himself. Just summoning one is difficult. Making it obey you is nearly impossible. More often than not they'll just laugh, snap your neck like a brittle twig and be on their merry way. I've summoned this one dozens of times and still I wonder if perhaps he's just been humoring me all along, waiting for the moment to _strike_."

As if on cue, the towering creature snarled and took a thunderous step forward, flexing its clawed hands. Katarina tensed up, bringing her left hand up in front of her, fingers bent into a warding sign. Still, she refused to take a single step back. That was the only reason I didn't. Whether she was making a point or simply paralyzed with fear, I couldn't tell.

"Now, young Ornstien," Phinis said, acknowledging the Xivilai's grin at the mention of the name, "tried to summon this fellow - naturally, right after I told him not to. You can imagine my shock."

Phinis snapped his fingers and the Xivilai shook the hall and its populace with another ominous step, its murderous aura pushing everyone in the hall backward.

But not Katarina.

And not me.

I focused my all my magicka reserves into the palm of my hand, my heart drumming away like a blacksmith's hammer in the heat of the forge, eyes wide with fear, my entire being preparing itself for a do-or-die strike...

And the Xivilai vanished.

Katarina released a breath I hadn't realized she was holding while I did the opposite, gasping in relief. Slowly, she relaxed from her casting stance, her hand returning to her side. Phinis turned his back to her, addressing the thoroughly terrified students collectively.

"The poor lad is still among the living, but it was his friends who paid the price for his hubris. That failure will mark him for the rest of his life because he did not have the _will _to do this work. Let that be a lesson to you... _all of you_..." he added, his arrow-gaze locking onto Treoy as he said so, "...regarding the dangers of getting above oneself."

Finally, he turned back to Katarina as if he were a Jarl addressing his lowliest servant. "Have we reached an understanding, Miss Katherine?"

She only glared, and Phinis just smiled that skeleton smile. "I take your silence as a yes," he said.

Stepping up to the lectern, Phinis began his lesson proper. Watching all the hooded students gathering obediently around him, it was hard not to think of him as a sanctimonious sermonizing priest. "Now, if we have all fulfilled our daily desire for drama, everyone please turn to page three hundered and ninety-four in your _Liminal Bridges _textbooks. We have a lot of reading to do today and, thanks to all these disturbances, not much time to do it in."

Despite the surge of hooded acolytes hurrying past us to their Master's feet, Katarina and I stayed rooted where we were. She looked me in the eye, but her expression was utterly incomprehensible. She was hiding something, but what? Fear? Anger? I couldn't say, and she never told me. She just sighed, turned away and pulled her copy of _Liminal Bridges _out of her satchel, heading over to join the rest of the congregation.

That was when I realized I'd left my books back in the dormitory.

-=0=-


End file.
